


wolf by the ears

by Inkstained_Dreamer



Series: This Can't End Well [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A few crack scenes, Angst, Autistic Lúthien, Blind Character, Coercion, Doriath, Finduilas's mediocre songwriting skills, Gen, Menegroth, POV Multiple, Poor Tyelpe, Queerplatonic Relationships, Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Trans Male Character, Travel, Visions, Wolves, light gore, to break up the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29703258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkstained_Dreamer/pseuds/Inkstained_Dreamer
Summary: Curufin, Celegorm, and Lúthien continue their journey and gain a destination. Celebrimbor meets his father's enemy and acquires a job. Finduilas learns something new.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Thingol | Elwë, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Huan, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Lúthien Tinúviel, Curufin | Curufinwë & Beren Erchamion, Curufin | Curufinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Finduilas Faelivrin & Mablung of Doriath, Lúthien Tinúviel & Curufin | Curufinwë
Series: This Can't End Well [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116659
Comments: 34
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really excited to keep working on this! I've got a lot of ideas, and I hope you enjoy!

“I don’t  _ like _ rain,” Curufin grumbled from his perch behind Lúthien. “I can’t remember what it feels like to not have little ice cold rivulets trickling down the back of my neck.”

“I gave you my cloak, what else can I do?” Lúthien replied. He could tell from the rigidity of her back that she was irritated. To be truthful, he would be too, if he’d been in her place. He knew he was complaining, but it was better than imagining the same awful scenarios over and over again. Torn apart by wolves. Tortured into insanity. Hung from a mountain. He pulled the dark, silky material of Lúthien’s wrap tighter around him and focused on the pattering of rain on the leaves above their heads. Pointless speculation would get him nowhere. 

Celegorm, riding ahead of them with Huan pacing by his side, twisted around to look at them.

“Curvo, have you ever heard the maxim “if you don’t have anything nice to say, shut the fuck up?” he said sweetly.

Curufin glared at him over Lúthien’s shoulder. “You may be unbothered by the constant, pervasive dampness, but then again, I’ve always considered you a bit feral, so it shouldn’t surprise me.”

Celegorm snorted. “Well, it’s thanks to my feral side that you eat every night, so shush.”

“I can  _ hunt _ !” Curufin retorted indignantly.

Celegorm laughed outright and directed his gaze at Lúthien. “Oh, that’s rich. You know, he once managed to get himself thrown off a horse and scratched up by a falcon in one day? And that was  _ before _ he dropped all his arrows in a river and nearly took Moryo’s eye out with a knife.”

Lúthien raised her eyebrows. “By mistake?”

“I don’t  _ know _ ,” Celegorm said, snickering. “One never knows with dear, vindictive Curvo.”

Curufin gave an exasperated sigh. “Could you find another pastime that doesn’t have to do with making fun of me?”

Celegorm widened his eyes. “Oh, but it’s just so easy to get you mad, I can’t resist.”

“I swear, Tyelko, if you keep this up I will stab you on purpose.”

Celegorm laughed. “You’re so precious, Curvo. You do know I’m not a piece of metal, right? You can’t use your hammers and tongs on me. And even if you could, what are you going to do? Hit my knee? Headbutt my nipples?” He chuckled, and there was an undercurrent of malice in it. He was actively trying to be aggravating. Which meant that he was either bored or angry at Curufin. Oh happy day. 

Curufin squeezed his hands into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. He could feel heat rising to his face, the tips of his ears burning. He imagined the raindrops sizzling on his skin and turning to steam, carrying his anger away into the air. It didn’t work. Flames roiled in his gut, and a searing tendril twisted up his throat and slipped between his lips before he could stop it.

“Actually, if I did attack you, I’d probably go for your loins.” He gave a tight smile, showing too many teeth. “ I mean, you did tell me that once you get at the brain of something, it’s done for.”

There was a pause. A drop of rain splashed onto Curufin’s nose and hung there like a pearl. Celegorm stared at him with wide eyes. Lúthien was silent, hunched in front of Curufin, her scarf wrapped around her head and hiding her face. 

“Seriously?” Celegorm said quietly. “Seriously, Curvo?”

The sickly taste of shame unfurled over Curufin’s tongue, but some stubborn, unyielding part of him dug its heels in and flatly refused to apologize, even with Celegorm looking at him like that, his face open and hurt and raw. Instead, that part decided to rub salt in the wound.

Curufin adopted a sympathetic attitude. “Oh, did I make a mistake? I just assumed that that’s where you did your thinking given how much you flirt with a woman who  _ so obviously _ isn’t interested in you that it’s embarrassing to watch.”

He felt Lúthien stiffen. She reined in their horse, and they came to a stop beside a large fir tree. Celegorm stopped too, his expression distant and icy now, his eyes shuttered windows with no light behind them. 

“I can’t believe you,” he said, and it was very obvious that he was trying not to yell. “I can’t believe you and I’m really not in the mood right now to indulge your need to take your own pain out on other people, so I’m just going to go. I hope you are aware that you are an asshole.” He turned his eyes on Lúthien, and there was a flicker there, some mixture of sadness and admiration and embarrassment, but he said nothing. All he did was turn around in the saddle, cluck to his horse and bound into the undergrowth, with Huan following behind. He cast a glance that Curufin, despite his limited knowledge of animals, would’ve described as reproachful, over his shoulder at Curufin, his amber eyes soulful, before he disappeared. 

Lúthien and Curufin were alone, huddled on their horse, standing still as the rain poured down around them.

Curufin pushed back the hood of Lúthien’s cloak and let the water cascade onto his head.

~ ~ ~

Lúthien pulled the slightly charred carcass of a rabbit from its resting place in the embers of the fire and set about dividing it in two. She hadn’t spoken all afternoon, maintaining a thoughtful silence that Curufin didn’t break. She’d caught the rabbit. She’d sung the wood dry and the fire into being. Curufin had sat still, his head on his knees, and called himself every epithet he knew. When he ran out, he started in on synonyms. 

“Eat,” Lúthien said, pushing the chunk of meat at him.

“I’m a terrible person,” Curufin mumbled.

“Can’t argue with you there, but I didn’t ask. Now eat your food before it gets cold.”

Curufin took the rabbit without further protest. Lúthien settled herself on the other side of the fire and began gnawing on her own piece, her fangs glinting in the orange light. Water droplets glistened on her short black hair.

When she’d finished, and was sucking the marrow serenely out of a bone, she finally broke the fast-congealing silence.

“Were you talking about me earlier? When you said all that to Celegorm?”

Curufin bit his lip. “Yeah. Yeah, I was.”

Lúthien nodded. “I assumed so. Just wanted to check.”

Curufin swallowed. “You. . .you didn’t know? That he liked you, I mean?”

“I did not.” She smiled slightly. “I am not known for my stunning social skills. Understanding other people is. . .challenging for me. I knew he was doing something, and it was something that bothered me, but I did not know what it was. These things are confusing,” she added frankly.

“My brother admires you greatly,” Curufin said quietly, his eyes on the fire. “He never meant to hurt you. He. . .he wouldn’t do anything to you, you know. Without your consent, I mean. He isn’t like that. He seems like that sometimes, but he’s not.”

Lúthien nodded. “I know. But what confuses me, Curufin, is why you are so eager to defend Celegorm when a few hours ago you pretty much called him a bag of shit in multiple different ways?”

Curufin rested his chin on his knees. “I’m tired.”

Lúthien raised one eyebrow. “So am I, and I’ve managed not to hurt someone’s feelings so badly that they run off into the forest and disappear. Try again, Curvo.”

“Uh, I’m scared?”

Lúthien shrugs. “Are you?”

Curufin exhaled. “Yes. I am. . .terrified. I am afraid that Finrod is dead. Or dying. Or being tortured. Or any number of horrible things. And it is my fault,” he added, his voice trembling. “It is all my fault.”

“Finrod made his own choice,” Lúthien softly replied. “I know my Beren, and I know that he holds your Finrod in high esteem. Anyone that he respects like that must be brave, and kind, and lovely. So I think, whatever you did, your friend would have gone with my husband.”

“He thinks I don’t care about him,” Curufin said miserably.

“When you go to him, he will see that you do.”

“And if he’s dead?”

Lúthien bit her lip, but when she spoke, her voice was steely. “They will not be. And if they are, we will--” she stopped, her dark eyes wide, staring straight ahead.

“Lúthien?” Curufin asks. 

She doesn’t answer. Her mouth has gone slack. Her hands lie motionless in her lap. 

“Are you okay?” Curufin says, a little louder. “Lúthien? Hey, Lúthien?”

And that’s when Lúthien falls to the ground and begins to shake.

~ ~ ~

Curufin is up and at her side in a moment. Her eyes are wide open and glassy, her hands balled into fists. She thrashes back and forth on the ground. A vein in her neck bulges. 

“Lúthien!” he yells. 

She doesn’t hear him. Her teeth do not unclench. Her eyes roll back in their sockets. 

Curufin grabs her shoulders and tries to hold her still. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what is happening. He doesn’t know anything. 

“Lúthien!” he screams again and again. “Lúthien!”

A hand lands on his shoulder and pulls him away.

“Valar, Curvo, can you not alert everyone and everything in a fifty mile radius that we’re here?!” Celegorm snarls. 

Curufin falls into shocked silence. Celegorm glares at him. 

“Don’t think I came back for you. I didn’t.”

Curufin is still too flabbergasted to do more than stammer something incoherent. He sits down on a log instead as Celegorm kneels beside Lúthien, Huan looming over them both.

It takes ten minutes for the convulsions to subside. Lúthien’s breathing eases as Celegorm rests a hand on her forehead and pours a little of his fëa down into her veins, a trick he learned long ago in Valinor. Her eyelids flutter, then open fully.

“Are you all right?” Celegorm asks gently.

“Do you know what happened?” Curufin interjects, earning a glare from Celegorm. The message is clear:  _ let her be.  _

She shrugs. “I’ve had them since I was a child. Visions. Sometimes I can control them. This one. . .was very sudden.” She smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s nice to see you by the way, Tyelko.”

She sits up, leaning on Huan for support and exhales shakily. Curufin comes to sit between her and Celegorm. 

“Lúthien. . .what did you see?”

She bites her lip. “Beren,” she murmurs. “I saw Beren.”

“Was he alive?” Celegorm asks. 

“Did you see Finrod?” Curufin says, leaning forward eagerly. 

“Yes. He was alive, but chained. He was on an island. In some kind of stone pit. I’m sorry, Curufin. I didn’t see Finrod. All I saw was Beren, and then a long line of running animals with red eyes. ”

“Oh,” Curufin says. “Oh no. Not. . .?”

“Tol-In-Gaurhoth,” Celegorm says hollowly. “The Isle of Werewolves. Well that  _ really _ is an obstacle for my falling asleep tonight. Great steaming piles of rancid shite.” 

“Why?” Lúthien asks, and Curufin remembers that she probably hadn’t been outside of Doriath until now.

“Well, Lúthien,” he says. “Tol-In-Gaurhoth itself isn’t the problem. The problem lives there. And his name is Sauron.”

“Ah,” Lúthien muses, and Curufin is staggered by the fact that she displays no consternation but a slight furrow in her brow. “Yes. That makes sense. Well, I guess we’ll have to redirect.”

“You. . .want to attack the island?” Celegorm asks tentatively, raising himself on one elbow from where he’d flopped onto the ground.

Lúthien looks at them both and smiles. It is not a nice smile. It’s a smile that says  _ don’t mess with me.  _ A smile that says  _ I’m dangerous. _

“Oh, yes,” she says calmly. “But I don’t  _ want _ to. I  _ plan  _ to. Sauron can go fuck himself, because I’m either walking out of there with Beren or not walking out at all. Goodnight, gentleman.”

Approximately thirty minutes later, she’s asleep. Curufin and Celegorm stare at each other over the flickering embers of the fire. The horses blow and shift in their sleep.

“I’m sorry,” Curufin says finally.

“Thank you. I accept your apology. But really, Curvo, you’ve got to figure out some way to deal with yourself that doesn’t involve sharpening your claws on other people’s feelings.”

“Did you hear Lúthien and me talking about. . .well. . .stuff?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause. Curufin strategically looks away. 

“I appreciate that you made clear that I would not force myself on anyone,” Celegorm says with a half-laugh. 

“I felt the need to defend your honor,” Curufin replies, shrugging. 

“Good gods, we both know neither of us have any of that,” Celegorm quips dryly, getting a laugh out of Curufin. 

And for the moment, things are all right. But even as he laughs and jokes with his brother, Curufin can’t shake the vision of thousands upon thousands of red-eyed wolves standing in the forest around them, a huge, closed circle that Finrod is outside of, and Curufin is trapped within.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a little bit of....blackmail, I guess? Light coercion?

Celebrimbor opened his eyes and found himself staring at a ceiling that, while similar to the ones in Nargothrond, was undeniably  _ not _ the familiar roof of his bedroom. The grey rock was veined with crystal, and water occasionally dripped down from the uneven surface. Moss grew in the cracks. A drop of water splashed down onto his forehead, and he turned over onto his side.

He was lying on a sort of low bed or couch. It was covered in clean, white cloth. He wore only his underclothes. His pack was nowhere to be seen. 

Tyelpë squeezed his eyes shut. His head ached. Where was Finduilas? For that matter, where was he? They’d been in the marshes, he remembered that, and they’d gotten stuck in the mud, and then. . .something had happened. He knew it was a bad thing, but the pain in his head was building and he just  _ couldn’t _ think of what it could be. He flopped over onto his back again with a groan and covered his face with his hands.

“You must not be feeling very well,” remarked a smooth voice. “I’m sorry.”

Celebrimbor sat up with a jerk, ignoring the rush of dizziness, and found himself staring at a tall, elegant-looking elf seated on a chair in the corner of the room. Some kind of barrier shimmered behind him, closing off the entrance to the room. The purplish light gleamed on his dark skin and intricately braided silver hair. His robes were of mint green silk, embroidered with gold. He was smiling gently, his eyes--they were mismatched, Celebrimbor noticed, one amber-brown and one a piercing blue--twinkling with goodwill. 

The lurch of fear dissipated, and Tyelpë relaxed. This man looked so kind. Surely he couldn’t mean any harm. He smiled back.

“Have some water,” the regal elf suggested, gesturing to a pitcher and cup sitting on the floor. Celebrimbor obliged. The water was clear and sweet. 

When he’d finished, his silver-haired companion leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and interlaced his fingers thoughtfully. A ring gleamed on one hand. Bangles jangled against each other, making a pleasant tinkling noise. 

“So, Celebrimbor,” the elf began calmly, “We encounter each other at last. I’ve wondered about you, you know. Your father is no great favorite of mine, but that doesn’t signify. One should not judge the child for the actions of the parent, don’t you think?”

Deep in Celebrimbor’s brain, his ego and superego began gently prodding his recalcitrant id, but it seemed that that good gentleman was more interested in the soothing, melodious tones of this kind man who so obviously wanted only the best for them than in the murmurings of his suspicious compatriots.

“Yeah,” Tyelpë said, nodding. “Yes, I quite agree. I appreciate that.”

The elf smiled again, his bicolored eyes full of benevolence. 

“I’m glad. I want us to be friends, Celebrimbor. Don’t you think that would be nice?”

Celebrimbor nodded again. “Maybe,” he replied. 

His ego and superego renewed their efforts, pounding on Mr. Id’s door and yelling through the keyhole  _ FIGHT OR FLIGHT, YOU IDIOT! FIGHT OR FLIGHT!  _ But, unfortunately, it seemed that obstinate Mr. Id was not taking visitors.

“Good, good,” said the elf, his lips curving upwards. White teeth gleamed. Tyelpë’s frantic ego lifted his superego onto its shoulders and began scrambling for the emergency lever. Mr. Id was seated at the bridge, staring forward, eyes glazed with rapt attention. 

Just as the elf--Mr. Id’s new friend--opened his mouth to speak again, the long-suffering superego managed to reach that much-needed lever and pull it down. Like a bolt of lightning, memory came slicing through Tyelpë’s mind. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be. And this person  _ wasn’t  _ his friend. 

With a squeak, he scrabbled backwards, tangling his legs in the bedclothes. 

“Where’s Finduilas?” he rasped. “What did you do to her?”

The elf raised his eyebrows, a picture of shock and concern. “ _ Do _ to her? I didn’t  _ do _ anything to your little friend. She’s perfectly fine. Why do you think I’d do her any harm, Tyelpë?”

Celebrimbor twisted his fingers into the blanket. “Because if I’m right about who you work for, then it definitely seems like something you’re capable of.”

“Oh?” His eyes widened. “Who do you think this bloodthirsty and ruthless boss of mine is, then?”

“You work for  _ Thingol _ ,” Celebrimbor spat out, mustering all of the disdain he’d learned from his father. 

The elf threw his head back and laughed. “Oh goodness. Oh my goodness gracious,” he gasped out, wiping his eyes. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. Remind me to tell Melian when she comes home. Oh, that’s a  _ good _ one.”

Tyelpë crossed his arms, fully aware that he probably looked very foolish. “Why is that?”

Reining himself in, the elf turned his eyes back to Celebrimbor and grinned widely. His teeth looked very sharp. 

“Can’t you use your simply amazing powers of deduction to figure that out, Tyelpë? I don’t work for Thingol. I  _ am _ Thingol.”

“Oh,” Tyelpë managed in a very, very small voice. 

~ ~ ~

In retrospect, it was perhaps not the best idea that Celebrimbor ever had. But he’d heard enough stories about cold, cruel, arrogant King Thingol that before he truly had time to weigh the pros and cons, he was up off the bed and throwing himself toward the faintly shimmering barrier standing between him and freedom. 

Just as quickly, he felt himself thrown backwards onto the floor, a sort of thrumming, electric shiver passing through his body. He hit the ground with a resounding thud, and lay still. Tears sprang to his eyes and dripped down into his hair. 

“Oh  _ goodness _ ,” Thingol said, tiredly this time, as if a very young child had just walked under a table and banged his head for the third time that day. Celebrimbor heard silk rustle as he rose to sit down on the floor beside him. 

Thingol’s face came into view against the ceiling. He was shaking his head.

“There was no need for that, Tyelpë. There really wasn’t. I already told you, I don’t intend to hurt you.” He paused, and his eyes suddenly didn’t look quite as kind. “Don’t give me a reason to change my mind.”

Celebrimbor squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think what his father would do. Or, better yet, what Uncle Maedhros would do. He was always smart, always made the right decisions. 

But then again, Uncle Maedhros would be smart enough to not have gotten himself caught in this situation at all. Celebrimbor opened his eyes again. The truth of the matter was this: he didn’t know what to do. 

“What do you want?” he asked. Might as well try to find out.

Thingol shrugged. “It’s a dilemma. I  _ could _ kill you, and really, I should, but it just seems so. . .”

“Unkind?” Tyelpë supplied hopefully.

Thingol let out a snort of laughter. “I was going to say ‘useless,’ but ‘unkind’ works too. But whatever the reason, it won’t do anything for me or for my people. Maybe lift morale, but not much. Killing a princeling, even a Fëanorian princeling, is still killing a princeling. And then there’s your friend.”

“Finduilas?” Celebrimbor said excitedly, half-sitting up.

“Yes. Finduilas. If I have you killed or tortured for information, she’ll tell her father and her aunt about it, and then everything will go to pot because they’ll feel obligated to fight a war with me. I like Orodreth, and I have absolutely no desire to destroy my wife’s friendship with Galadriel. A war is out of the question.”

“Um. . .great,” Celebrimbor said. He had never heard his own death discussed so casually, and he didn’t quite know how to respond.

Thingol gestured to the side. “Then there’s the other option--try to use you as a bargaining chip to get at your family. But inconveniently, your father and your most accessible uncle have, apparently, disappeared into the wilderness. And your other uncles are too far away for me to easily negotiate with. So I can’t ransom you. And to be honest, I don’t want to. It seems so avaricious. And besides, I don’t want filthy Fëanorian money in Menegroth.” He narrowed his eyes for a moment, the set of his mouth hard and unyielding. But a moment later, like a cloud passing over mountains, the expression was gone, and his face melted back into faintly mocking serenity.

“So, Tyelpë, what do I do with you?”

“You could let me go.”

Thingol laughed and shook his head. “Good try, Celebrimbor, but that’s going to be a no.”

There was silence for a while, broken only by the faint gurgling of water somewhere. 

“You know,” Thingol said slowly, after the silence had become more than a little uncomfortable, “I think I  _ do _ have an idea. You’re a smith, like your father, aren’t you?”

Celebrimbor furrowed his brows. “Yes, I am.”

“Charming how these things run in families.”

“What do you want, Thingol?” Celebrimbor murmured.

Thingol smiled. “Well, it just so happens that I have some work for a talented young smith like yourself. Routine things, restoring the most valuable necklace ever made, reforging a potentially sentient sword, you know. Nothing too labor-intensive. Interested?”

Celebrimbor sat upright and stared Thingol full in the face. “You’re joking,” he said incredulously.

“A king never jokes about commerce, Tyelpë.”

“You’re a fool if you really think I’d help you!” Celebrimbor snarled, but it sounded pathetic even to his own ears.

Thingol gave a tired and melancholy sigh, letting his eyes close for a moment. When he opened them again, they were icy.

“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, Tyelpë,” he said, metallically snipping off his consonants. “I consider myself a reasonable man, and, before you insisted on behaving like a foolish, hotheaded  _ child _ , I had thought I was dealing with a reasonable person. But apparently I am not,” he drawled disdainfully.

Tyelpë felt the heat of embarrassment rising to his cheeks. He was almost of age, and just at that point where being called a child is tantamount to being called any of a selection of words which we will not print here.

With another deep sigh, as if Celebrimbor was forcing him to poke his bejeweled finger into a steaming pile of manure, he reached into the folds of his robes and withdrew a small glass bottle. He held it up to the light, and Tyelpë’s eyes widened. Dark liquid sloshed inside. He could faintly smell anise.

Thingol smiled at his recognition. “This is yours, I believe?” He waggled the bottle just out of reach, half-laughing. “Oh, yes. I know what it is. I had my chemists deconstruct it as soon as you arrived. We assumed it was poison.”

“It isn’t,” Celebrimbor interjected. “It’s harmless.”

Thingol’s lips twisted into a curve like the blade of a scythe and he stood, still clasping the bottle between his thumb and forefinger. “I know that, Tyelpë, but it’s kind of you to try to reassure me.”

There was a pause. Celebrimbor kept his eyes on the bottle. Thingol watched Celebrimbor, still smiling faintly. 

And then he closed his fist around the bottle and squeezed it. There was a sharp crack, and then a tinkle of breaking glass. Dark, viscous liquid dripped down from Thingol’s closed hand. He heard Tyelpë’s stifled gasp and his smile broadened.

“Bearing in mind that I have more than just this one dose in my possession, I’m going to ask again, Tyelpë: are you interested in doing some smithwork for me?”

Tyelpë thought his innards would curdle. No.  _ No. _ This wasn’t fair. Atya had said no one would treat him differently for being. . .He’d said that Celebrimbor didn’t need to be afraid. . .

But now, here was Thingol smiling like a cat, and the elixir, the precious, precious elixir puddling on the floor. Unconsciously, Tyelpë crawled forwards and dipped his fingers into the puddle. It was already flowing away, the blanket he’d dragged off the bed soaking up the rivulets. And Thingol had it all. He could destroy all the doses and then Celebrimbor would. . .

He looked down at his chest and his throat constricted. He  _ couldn’t _ . He  _ wouldn’t _ . None of this was fair.

“Well?” Thingol prompted, letting the shards of glass rain onto the floor in front of Celebrimbor. 

“Okay,” Tyelpë whispered. “You’ve made your point. I’ll work for you.”

Thingol bent down and patted him on the head. “Good boy. I’ll send someone to fetch you later. Farewell, for the moment, Tyelpë. It’s really a pleasure to have you here. We’ve heard  _ so _ much about how  _ wonderful _ the Noldor are,” he said, his tone dripping with contempt and smelling of self-satisfaction. With that, Thingol, lord of the Hidden Kingdom, sailed out in a cloud of silk and perfume, the barrier parting around him with a slight thrum.

To his credit, Tyelpë waited until Thingol’s footsteps had faded away completely before bursting into tears. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

It wouldn’t have been so bad if the hallways would just stay put. But Menegroth itself seemed to have an intense personal desire to thwart Finduilas at every turn. Corridors that had forked became dead ends the second time she visited them. Doors that she was positive had opened onto stairwells were suddenly portals to private rooms. After walking in on two very surprised women with most if not all of their garments on the floor, Finduilas decided that doors were too risky and stuck to walking the halls with a scowl so deep on her round face that anyone she passed looked away. 

Stupid Thingol. Stupid Menegroth. 

“Don’t try to stop me,” she snapped at a carpet that changed its pattern beneath her feet. “I  _ will _ find him.”

But hours passed--or maybe days--and she unearthed no sign whatsoever of Celebrimbor. It was as if he’d simply disappeared. When she asked the guards in their green and silver livery, their answers were always some variant on  _ No, Princess Finduilas, we don’t know _ , or occasionally  _ Don’t fret about that, Princess Finduilas. Let the adults worry. Go and play.  _

Finduilas swept coldly by those particular guards, on her dignity. She wasn’t a baby, and if they wouldn’t help her, she’d just find Tyelpë on her own. Still, she took secret joy in sticking out her tongue at the guards when she was out of sight. 

As she walked, she trailed her hand over the wall carvings, stroked the soft threads of tapestries. She tapped her fingernails on crystal and listened to it ring, and she quietly rearranged objects, setting them at different angles, switching their positions. She’d read a story once about a man trapped in a labyrinth, who had made markings on the walls to help him find the way out. Why shouldn’t it work here?

Well, perhaps because Menegroth was not just a simple maze. It was strange, but the more she wandered, the more acute the feeling of being watched grew. Finduilas found herself looking over her shoulder uneasily. The regard didn’t feel menacing, but it didn’t feel comfortable. Nargothrond never made her feel this way. And the more her neck prickled, the more sure she became that Menegroth itself was conscious, watching, listening. The floor seemed almost to throb beneath her feet, like a slow, colossal heartbeat. Finduilas shivered slightly, and then clenched her fists at her side. She wouldn’t let these mossy old caverns unnerve her. She was a princess, she was going to be a warrior one day, and, most of all, she was Finduilas, Orodreth’s daughter, renowned jelly-bun thief, professional sneaker-outer, and, according to a certain Dwarven diplomat, “Stubborn as a mule and tenacious as a terrier dog.” She was Finduilas and she wasn’t going to curl up and cry on account of a creepy old pile of rock that wouldn’t behave. 

To pass the time, Finduilas began to sing softly under her breath, her footsteps tapping out a beat against the stone floor. It was a song of her own making, and even though it was short and, as Uncle Finrod put it, “melodically creative,” it was her song, and she liked it, so she sang it as she walked through the twisting, spiralling corridors of the Thousand Caves. 

_ “I’m Finduilas and I don’t get scared, _

_ You can do your worst to shake me but I just won’t care, _

_ I’m a mountain, I’m a lion, I’m strong as a bear, _

_ And if you try and stop me, well, you’d better beware!” _

Five or six repetitions later, she still hadn’t found Tyelpë. In fact, she hadn’t seen anyone for a while. The hallways were silent but for the ubiquitous trickling of water. 

Finduilas stopped, the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rising. She was uncomfortably aware again of that invisible presence, the regard of Menegroth itself. A puff of air brushed her cheek. She jumped, and unbidden, all the stories of ghost and wights that she’d been told popped into her mind. 

So it’s quite understandable that when she heard a rhythmic tapping approaching her from around the corner, Finduilas flattened herself against the wall, her heart pounding in her ears. 

_ Tap-tap-tap-tap.  _ Getting closer. Was it some kind of ghost? A monster? 

A man rounded the corner, a long, thin cane in his hand. He was sweeping it in front of him, making the tapping sound. Finduilas stared. The cane was too thin to support his weight; what was he doing with it? Clearing a path? 

The cane hit the base of a statue and Finduilas stared as the man neatly sidestepped and kept going. 

Though it was probably rude, and most definitely not looking for Celebrimbor, Finduilas began to follow the man with the cane. Anyways, she reasoned, he was dressed in Thingol’s livery--perhaps he knew where Tyelpë was. So, with her conscience mollified for the moment, she walked quietly after the mysterious elf. 

They walked down corridor after corridor, and up a flight of stairs. They passed more people as they moved back towards the center of the complex. Finduilas noticed that when they greeted the person ahead of her, they said their names first. She wrinkled her brows as she darted across an open court with a fountain at the center. 

The man with the cane stopped in front of a door, ran his fingers over it, nodded once, and went inside. Finduilas slid in after him, and found herself in an office, with a desk and shelves filled with books, rolled up scrolls, and other miscellaneous objects. The man leaned his cane against the desk and sat down behind it.

Finduilas began to back towards the door. She shouldn’t be here, she’d get in trouble. This was stupid. 

She groped for the doorknob, and as she did so, knocked into one of the shelves. Scrolls cascaded down onto the floor with a rustling thud. The elf at the desk’s head jerked up.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

Finduilas swallowed. “I’m so sorry,” she squeaked. “I, um, I went in the wrong room! I was just going!”

The man tilted his head. “Really? So you aren’t the person who’s been following me for the past quarter of an hour or so?”

Finduilas blinked. “Oh. Um, no I am definitely not that person.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not angry. My name is Mablung. I’m Thingol’s Captain of Guard. May I ask, why _ were  _ you tailing me so assiduously?”

Finduilas stuck her hands into the pockets of her tunic. “What do you do with your stick?”

Mablung’s eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me, wha--oh!” He grinned. “Yes. My cane. Understandable that you would be confused about that, really. Many people are. I use it to detect objects around me.” He picked it up in one hand. “It’s hollow. When it strikes something, it vibrates, and helps me gauge all sorts of things--irregularities in terrain, depth, steps up or down, lots of everyday occurrences. Do you understand better?”

Finduilas sat down on a chair, crossed her legs under her, and furrowed her brows. “I don’t get it. I mean, I get how it works, but I don’t. . .get the whole thing?”

He smiled patiently. “I can’t see, Finduilas.”

“You can’t see  _ anything _ ?!”

Mablung shrugged. “Not much, no. At least not in the way you’re probably picturing it.”

Finduilas rested her chin on her hands, thinking hard. “Wait, but if you can’t see, how did you know who I am? You knew my name.”

Mablung tapped his fingers on his desk. “Good noticing. You’re right; I shouldn’t’ve known who you were before you introduced yourself.” His mouth curved up. “But I have a few little tricks up my sleeve, you know.”

Intrigued, Finduilas settled herself more comfortably in her chair and fixed her eyes on Mablung. “Like what?” she asked.

He folded his hands. “I’m sure you’ve been told, Finduilas, that the universe and everything in it is made of Song?”

She nodded.

“Finduilas?” Mablung said questioningly, and she nearly slapped herself for being so stupid. Nodding wouldn’t matter to a person who couldn’t see it.

“Yes, sorry,” she said. 

He smiled. “Good. So: our whole world is made of Song. And every living thing in our world has a spirit. A fëa. A soul. Whatever you want to call it. And each of those makes a unique pattern in the Song, like a weave in a tapestry. Do you follow?”

“I think so. . .”

“It is possible to sense these different patterns and thus identify the owner. Since I’d seen you before today, I recognized your Songweave as soon as you came to my attention. To answer your question, that’s how I knew who you were.”

Finduilas frowned. “But if you can recognize people by using this. . .thingy, why do the people you pass say their names when they greet you?”

Mablung chuckled. “Nothing gets past you, does it? They say their names because I am not constantly probing through Song-- same reason I use my cane. Observing the Songweave is draining for me; it has limits. The longest stretch I’ve maintained it was for two hours, and it was a life-or-death situation after which I passed out for three days. I don’t care to do that again, so I typically only use it while fighting, if I’m in a crowded place alone, or if I’m suspicious about my surroundings. Does that answer your question?”

Finduilas’s eyes were wide. “That is the awesomest thing I’ve ever heard of. Wow.”

Mablung grinned. “Thanks. You’ve got to keep my secrets, though,” he added, putting a finger to his lips. “All my soldiers think I use echolocation.”

Finduilas burst out laughing and Mablung quickly joined her. But when their giggles had subsided a bit, Finduilas sat up and grew serious.

“Mablung, you said you’re Captain of the Guard, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

She shifted in her seat. “Well. . .I was wondering if maybe you could. . .help me, I guess? My cousin, Tyelpë, is somewhere here, and I can’t find him, and I need to. Do you know where he is?”

Mablung sighed heavily. “Yes, I do. But, to be frank, I don’t think it’s within my authority to take you to him or tell you where he’s being held. Thingol is. . .Thingol. I don’t always agree with him, but I respect him, and I must abide by the orders he gives me. I’m sorry, Finduilas. I can take you anywhere else in Menegroth, but I cannot take you to your friend.”

The floor swam out of focus and a tear dripped down Finduilas’s cheek. She was tired. She wanted to go home. She wanted her father, she wanted Celebrimbor, she wanted Auntie Galadriel or Uncle Finrod or anyone else who could make things all right again. Another hot tear trickled down her cheek, followed by another and another until she was sobbing into her tunic. 

Mablung got up, his hand tracing the edge of the desk, and knelt down beside her.

“Hey, don’t cry. It’ll be okay. Nothing bad is going to happen to you or your friend here, I promise.”

“I want to see him!” Finduilas wailed. “I want to see Tyelpë!”

Mablung took her hands in his own large, callused ones and nodded.

“I know, Finduilas. And if it were up to me, I’d take you to him. But since it isn’t up to me, how’s this for another option: I’ll teach you to open your mind to Song. And follow it to a destination.” One corner of his mouth pulled up in a crooked smile. “And, if you just, er,  _ happen _ to find your friend while doing that, well, obviously the Valar lined it up that way and there’s nothing any of us can do, right?”

Finduilas sniffed into her shirt collar. “Really?” she said timidly. “You’d do that?”

“Of course.” He rose to his feet and picked up his cane, offering her his other hand. “Now, come along. Menegroth can be very confusing at first, and I wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

“Says the person who can’t see!” Finduilas giggled, playfully flicking at his hand.

He ruffled her hair. “Oh,  _ honey _ . You followed me for, what, twenty minutes give or take, and never even noticed--never even  _ considered _ \-- that I was blind. You’ve heard what they say about people in glass houses, right?”

Needless to say, it was a very merry walk back to her rooms, and while Finduilas hadn’t achieved her goal, she’d done something that was perhaps even more valuable--she’d made a friend.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, my version of Mablung is blind!! If you have any questions about that, feel free to ask in a comment or drop me a message on Tumblr (@riding-with-the-wild-hunt).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: there's some gore in this chapter, friends. But only at the end, so you should be fine for the beginning. :)
> 
> (Also: can you spot the places where I made myself laugh?)

“I’m very uncomfortable with this,” Celegorm said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

They were lying pressed together behind an outcropping of rock, looking down at the dark, asymmetrical pinnacles of the fortress below them. A light rain was beating down on them, and evening was falling fast. Curufin felt rather than heard Lúthien sigh.

“That’s the fifty-seventh time you’ve said that, Tyelko,” she snapped. “It’s getting tiresome.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Curufin groused through a curtain of damp hair.

“Don’t you get up on your high horse, Curufin, you’ve been complaining too, ” Lúthien reprimanded. She threw an arm over Huan’s back and rubbed his fur. “Oh, Huan, you are the _only one here_ who isn’t a lead weight on my sanity. _Thank_ you.”

Huan licked her face and she giggled, her sharp teeth flashing. Celegorm shook his head.

“How are you so relaxed? Gods, Lú, we’re literally about to charge down and meet evil incarnate with no plan!”

“We’re all going to die,” Curufin said gloomily. It was one thing to dream about rescuing Finrod and entirely another to be faced with a towering fortress and to be told that you must go in and track him down without the aid of several armies, preferably with battering rams and trebuchets.

Lúthien rolled her eyes. “Would you two stop being so negative? We do have a plan. Celegorm, you’re coming with me and Huan--we’ll draw the wolves to the bridge and make them come at us one by one while Curufin takes my cloak, goes around the back, and finds Beren and Finrod. Easy as anything.”

Celegorm groaned. “And you’re sure, absolutely, positively certain, that you can take on Sauron and get us out of here, preferably with all our limbs intact?”

“Yes. I am. Fairly. At least sixty percent.”

“As I said before,” Curufin mumbled into his folded arms, “We are _all_ going to die.”

“Don’t worry, Curvo,” Celegorm said consolingly. “She’s sixty percent sure. We’ve gone on a _lot_ less before, after all!”

~ ~ ~

Perhaps they just got lucky--there were no guards on the slopes reaching down to the river. For himself, Curufin thought that it was because of the weather. Even Sauron wouldn’t want to be out in this. It was cold and clammy, with errant twists of fog drifting across the water. Tree branches rattled in an ominous fashion that should be reserved for melodramas alone. Ragged shreds of cloud chased each other around the thin sliver of moon. 

In other words, it was a perfect night to commit violent murder.

“It’s not _murder_ ,” Lúthien said when Curufin vocalized this.

Celegorm snorted as he leapt from boulder to boulder. “Okay then, what is it?”

“Self-defense,” she said brightly. 

Curufin raised his eyebrow as he scrambled past the knotted roots of a tree that had no business being in his way. “Somebody’s got to attack you for it to be self-defense,” he grunted. “Nobody’s attacked us. Yet.”

. “All right,” she conceded, “It’s self-defense that we’re instigating.”

“Hate to break it to you, Lú, but that’s practically the definition of murder,” Celegorm replied. 

She shrugged nonchalantly. The ghost of a smile flickered over her lips. “Well, sometimes you’ve just gotta do what you’ve gotta do, I suppose.”

“Eru have mercy,” Curufin said, and promptly tripped over a loose stone and tumbled down the rest of the embankment. 

“Thanks for the support, Eru,” Celegorm added helpfully. 

“Fuck you, God,” said Curufin. 

“Whoa there, kiddo. I know the Big Boss, he’s a real good guy,” said Huan.

And for once, Curufinwë Atarinkë, renowned master of the witty comeback, was at a loss for words.

~ ~ ~

Curufin looked at Celegorm, who looked at Lúthien, who was staring at Huan, who was sitting peacefully atop a flat rock. 

“What?” he said, apparently unperturbed. “You’re all gawking.”

“Um, Huan, old pal,” Celegorm said. He sounded rather strangled. “They can understand you. You’re not. . .speaking Dog.”

Huan licked one paw. “Well, yes, Tyelko, that’s kind of the point.”

“You never told me you could speak!” Celegorm accused. 

“Pshaw. You know I love you, bud. No hard feelings, right?”

“Hey, boys,” Lúthien interjected, “Let’s focus on the plan, okay? You two can get all chummy later.”

Huan dipped his head. “Sorry, lady. Floor’s all yours.” 

“Fucking shit, the dog’s talking!” Curufin announced, rather too late for it to be helpful.

Lúthien, Celegorm, and Huan all stared at him, then at each other. Lúthien shook her head. 

“Uh, sorry,” Curufin said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Yep. Keep talking. Just going to act like this is normal now.”

“Great,” Lúthien said brusquely. “Now, it’s time to review. Celegorm, Huan, you’re coming with me. We get on the bridge, kill any guards we find, and wait to see what our friend Sauron does next. If he does what I think he will, which is send out his wolves one by one, we’ll just kill them as they come. Eventually, he’ll have to come out himself. And then the fun starts. Curufin, while everyone else is busy at the bridge, you cross the river--it’s shallow, you can walk most of the way, I think-- and go around the fortress to the opposite side of the island. That’s where Beren was in my vision. We don’t know how long ago that was, so if neither of our guys are there, just wait for us to come to you and we’ll figure something out. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Curufin choked out. “Sounds fine.” 

“It sounds slipshod and potentially life-threatening. I love it,” Celegorm said feelingly.

“You’re the boss, lady,” Huan affirmed.

“Wonderful,” Lúthien said, grinning. “Then let’s go kick some serious ass.”

~ ~ ~

The water was freezing, and Curufin wondered if he should’ve kept his shoes on. His feet slipped and slid on slimy, unseen rocks. Lúthien’s cloak trailed in the water and the hood flopped into his eyes. 

_This is for Finrod_ , he reminded himself, when the temptation to turn back became very strong. _This is all for Finrod, and you put him through worse, so stop complaining._

By the time he’d reached the other side and stepped onto Tol-In-Gaurhoth itself, the bodies of three dead wolves had floated past him on the current. It seemed Lúthien and Celegorm we’re doing fine. He was too far from the bridge to see anything, but looked back anyways. 

_Focus_ , he chided himself. So he slipped back into his boots and began squelching his way around the perimeter of the island, his hand on his dagger, but there was no need. The few living things he passed were either running (or slithering, or crawling) away into the dark, or didn’t seem to notice him. Curufin made a mental note to thank Lúthien for lending him her cloak. He wondered absentmindedly what it was made of. It was so soft, and seemed to muffle every sound he made. The crunching of stones and sand beneath his feet was dim and muted. 

It was just as Lúthien had described: at the far tip of the island, the rock opened into many pits, all dark. The air stank of rotting flesh, fresh blood, and excrement. Flies buzzed, feeding on bodies. Curufin judiciously looked away, pulling the cloak across his nose and mouth. He’d smelled cadavers and shit before, but this place was different. This place reeked of corruption, of a wrongness so strong that it warped the very earth around it. 

Curufin shivered. At least there didn’t seem to be any guards.

But then again, that could mean there were no prisoners _to_ guard. 

Corpses can’t run away, after all. 

Curufin walked faster, looking around him for any sign of Finrod or his companions, listening for a voice, or breathing. 

The only sound was the harsh cawing of a carrion crow and the rushing of water. Curufin’s heart pounded.

“Finrod?” he called quietly. 

No answer.

“Finrod?” he said louder, his voice turning uncomfortably high. It sounded very small in the darkness.

And then a cracked voice answered him, it seemed from the ground itself.

“Is someone there? Hello?”

Curufin squeezed his eyes shut. That was not Finrod’s voice. It was too deep, and the accent was different. But he wasn’t only here for Finrod. Lúthien was trusting him. He had to focus.

“Yes,” Curufin managed to choke out. “Who are you?”

“You aren’t working for. . .him?” asked the voice, and the hope Curufin heard in it was almost painful.

“I am not. I swear it.”

“My name is Beren, then. Son of Barahir.”

“I am called. . .you know, it doesn’t matter. Can you tell me where you are?”

Beren let out a raspy laugh. “In a hole.”

“Are you chained?”

“Yes.”

“Rattle them. I’ll follow the sound, it’s easier than your voice.”

Metal clanked discordantly below him, and Curufin swept his trailing cloak over his arm and went towards it. 

He found himself looking down into complete darkness, impenetrable even to his keen eyes. 

“Beren? Can you see me?” 

The metallic rattling stopped. “ _Yes_ ,” Beren exclaimed. “Oh, gods. Thank the gods.”

Curufin knelt on the edge of the yawning chasm and slowly extended his body over the edge until he was hanging by his hands. The stench of blood and decay was sickening.

“If I let go, Beren, what are the chances I’ll break my leg?” Curufin inquired conversationally.

“How good are you at falling?” Beren shot back.

Curufin snorted. “Fair. I’ll just take my chances.”

He took a deep breath and let go. There was a moment of weightlessness and then he crashed to the ground, letting loose a litany of curses. The cloak had pillowed him somewhat, but he knew he’d be bruised tomorrow. If he survived until then. Slowly, his legs and back protesting, he stood up. 

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that the floor of the pit was littered with bones. Globs of flesh still clung to them. Many of them looked chewed. Something scuttled by his foot. Curufin fought the urge to fall to his knees and vomit up every morsel of food he’d ever consumed.

Beyond the bones, in the area of deepest shadow, something moved, and then began crawling into the dim moonlight filtering down on them. It was a naked man, with lank, tangled hair and an iron collar about his neck. One eye was swollen shut. Cuts and bruises covered his body. He was caked with dirt and stank like a midden. 

Curufin only paused for a moment before rushing forward and kneeling beside Beren. He drew his dagger, Angrist, and saw Beren flinch back.

“No, no!” he said. “I’m here to free you, not hurt you. I know your. . .I know Lúthien.”

Beren’s one functional eye widened. “You. . .you’re. . .she. . .she’s here?!”

“Yes. Lean forwards and I can try to cut your collar.”

His hand shook with combined impatience and fear, but Angrist cut deep into the iron on the first stroke. Beren’s skin felt feverish beneath his hands. The smell was no better up close.

“I kind of think I know you, but that’s silly. I’ve been here forever, maybe. Some days I think so, but I remember Lúthien, and _she’s_ not here, thank all the gods,” Berne babbled. “She wants to marry me, did you know that? I met her in Doriath. She was dancing, with flowers in her hair! I can remember that. I _can_.”

The collar broke into two pieces, and Curufin slid them off Beren’s shoulders, letting them drop to the ground. Beren was still talking, his words slurred together. Something about his father. He was melting into a language Curufin didn’t know, harsh-sounding and strange.

“Beren. Beren!” Curufin yelled, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him.

Beren curled in on himself, suddenly terrified. Curufin forced his voice to gentleness.

“Beren, I need you to stick with me for a little longer. I am looking for someone else. He came with you. His name is Finrod. Can you tell me where he is? Do you know?”

Beren stared up at him, tears welling up in his open eye and spilling down his bruised cheek, leaving clean streaks amid the grime. “Finrod. He fought the wolf. He wouldn’t tell _them_ anything.”

“Yes, but where is he? Is he alive?!” Curufin barked.

Beren furrowed his brows. “Alive. Yes, I think so. He was alive after. . .after he fought the wolf.” He raised his arm and pointed back behind Curufin, to a hulking shape he’d taken for a boulder. “There.”

With a groan, he slumped forward onto Curufin. He was shoved away, and flopped like a ragdoll onto the floor. Curufin rose, looked back, cursed his conscience, and threw Lúthien’s cloak over him. 

And then he ran to the body of the wolf. It was huge, larger than Huan by a good margin. Curufin circled it. 

“Finrod? Finrod?!”

No answer. Curufin stabbed Angrist into the festering corpse with a squelch, and in doing so, rolled it over a few inches. 

But critical inches they were. Because, extending from beneath the wolf’s body, was a hand. 

Curufin’s eyes widened and he fell to his knees.

“Finrod?” he gasped. He touched the hand. The fingers curled weakly around his.

They say that when someone you love is in danger, you are capable of many things you would not dream of doing in ordinary life. And here, that held true. Because Curufin sheathed his dagger, put both of his hands on the body of the wolf, and, with a grunt, gave a tremendous heave, revealing what lay beneath.

Curufin’s heart plunged from his throat to his stomach.

Finrod lay on his back, his matted hair spread out around his head and sticky with blood. One of his legs was twisted at an unnatural angle. Claw marks made red stripes down his abdomen and onto his thighs. Blood trickled from hundreds of small wounds. 

And then Curufin looked into Finrod’s face, and his heart dropped from his stomach straight onto the floor.

The right half of his face was bloody pulp. His eye socket was a gaping hole, torn flesh in and around it, tinged a sick hue that screamed infection. A maggot crawled over where most of Finrod’s nose used to be. A few bloodied teeth lay on the ground around him.

Curufin grabbed the bug and smashed it into nothing on the ground, pulling Finrod onto his lap.

“Finrod. Finrod, please,” he murmured. “Can you hear me? It’s Curufin! Oh, _Finrod_.”

He pressed his ear to his partner’s chest, feeling something sharp. Splintered bone?

“Please,” Curufin whispered. “Oh, dear Eru, please.”

 _Thump. Thump._ Soft. Faint. But there. A heartbeat.

Finrod’s cracked lips opened very, very slightly. His voice was feather-light and nearly inaudible, but he spoke one word: “Cur. . .vo?”

“Yes!” Curufin sobbed. “It’s me. I’m here. I’m here. I’m sorry. Finrod, I’m sorry.”

Finrod half-shook his head, but it lolled back, heavy on Curufin’s arm. “Not. . .not. . .your. . .fault. My. . .responsibility. Oath to. . .Barahir.”

“Why do you always have to be so goddamn noble?!” Curufin wailed. “Can’t you just be selfish for once? If not for yourself, for me?!”

Finrod let out a raspy little laugh, but it subsided into coughing. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth, mixing with Curufin’s tears.

“Curufin,” Finrod said, and Curufin could feel the pain in his body, could feel how hard he was fighting to stay. “Go.”

“What?” Curufin whispered.

Finrod fixed him with his one eye and Curufin could see that it was filled with tears, the pupil enormous.

“Go, love,” he whispered. “Go and. . .”

“And what?” Curufin asked anxiously, bending closer. 

“Live,” Finrod murmured, and his voice had a strange, burbling quality to it. A red bubble swelled on his lips. It quivered there for a moment, and then burst with a minute popping sound. 

The hand in Curufin’s went slack.

Finrod was dead.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This covers what went down while Curufin was finding Beren and Finrod. :)
> 
> CW: some light gore in this chapter and a tad bit of very very minimal body horror.

Lúthien, Celegorm, and Huan picked their way single-file over the treacherous rocks, Lúthien in the lead, Celegorm and Huan side by side behind her. The bridge loomed ahead of them, a curving ebony arch over rushing black rapids. Mist drifted beneath it in whorls and eddies, like floating cobwebs. Two globes of yellow appeared beneath it. They winked out, then reappeared, closer than before.

“Wolf,” Celegorm murmured to Lúthien.

“I know,” came her quiet reply. 

“You want it?”

She shrugged, still with her back to him. “You can have it. I think there will be enough for both of us eventually..”

He chuckled under his breath and silently slid his sword out of its sheath. “All in good time.”

It was over quickly. The wolf never saw Celegorm coming, and one moment of shock and terror later, his sword came down, slitting its throat. Blood sprayed up, splashing into Celegorm’s pale hair and onto his face. He licked it off his lips and heaved the carcass into the water, wiping his hands on his shirt.

Lúthien waited calmly atop a large boulder. Her face was completely serene. Celegorm climbed up beside her.

“If all of Sauron’s guards are that stupid, this should be as easy as stealing candy from a child,” he joked.

Lúthien stared down at him, her eyes dark and unfathomable. “Don’t fool yourself. It won’t be.” There was a pause, and then she added, “And I sincerely hope you don’t have personal expertise with your chosen analogy.”

“When you have four younger siblings, you learn many things,” Celegorm said dryly, “Including how to steal sweets.”

Lúthien snorted, and, to his surprise, took his blood-sticky hand in hers and kept walking, Huan pacing at her side. 

~ ~ ~

The three of them came onto the bridge from the left embankment and found it clear of any obstacles. No wolves. No goblins. No “eldritch thingummies,” as Celegorm put it. Just a bare stone pathway leading into a tunnel-like portal. The water rushed beneath them, and they settled down to wait. 

They didn’t have to for long. The first guard emerged from the darkness, jaws slavering, eyes bright red and full of malice. Huan leapt at it with a snarl and, for a few moments, all was a barking tangle of flying fur and teeth. But Huan, always reliable, managed to sink his teeth into the soft throat of his adversary, and, with a triumphant, if slightly muffled bark, bodily threw them over the side of the bridge. There was a yelp, a splash, and then silence. Lúthien patted Huan’s head. He licked blood from his muzzle and looked up at Celegorm with a satisfied expression. 

“Good  _ boy _ ,” Celegorm praised.

“Oh, I know,” Huan said. 

“Then why were you looking at me like that?!”

“I wanted to hear you say it, Tyelko. It’s affirming for an old dog like me. Keeps me from getting depressed.”

Celegorm harrumphed. “Feeds your ego, more like.”

Lúthien coughed. “Focus, gentleman. We’ve got company.”

It--whatever it was--emerged from the tunnel, crawling on six legs that bent in places that didn’t seem natural. Leathery skin stretched, bones visible beneath. Too many eyes shone black and pupiless. Celegorm heard Lúthien inhale, felt her tense beside him.

The thing opened its mouth, displaying teeth like scythes dripping with saliva that sizzled when it touched the stones of the bridge. 

Like a shadow given life, Lúthien launched herself forward, sprinting towards the twisted thing. It rose up on two sets of its legs, preparing to strike at the foolish girl who dared to attack it. 

And then Lúthien stopped and sang out a harsh, almost screeching, strain. The hair on Celegorm’s neck rose. His spine prickled. He buried his hand in Huan’s fur and closed his eyes.

The many-eyed, many-legged monstrosity let out a howl of pain as its underside was ripped open, blood and slimy viscera spilling out. The air was filled with the horrible sound of cracking bone as its spine bent double and snapped. It collapsed to the ground, choking out its last gurgling breaths.

Lúthien shoved it off the bridge and walked back to Celegorm.

“How’d you do that?” Celegorm inquired rather faintly.

Lúthien looked away, down into the black water. “My mother,” she said simply. 

“Oh. Yes.”

“Does it frighten you?” Lúthien whispered.

Celegorm looked at Lúthien, but her face was still turned away. She seemed curled in on herself, her typical confidence trickling away. Celegorm leaned over Huan’s back to touch her arm.

“Fuck, I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t. It’s rather off-putting to watch intestines pouring out of someone as their bones snap, even if they have an intense desire to kill you. So yes, Lúthien, it scares me.” He paused, and smiled. “But you don’t. You’re my friend, Lú. And friends don’t fear each other.”

Lúthien reached up to brush his hand with her fingertips. “I appreciate that,” she said softly. 

“Hate to spoil your big platonic moment,” Huan grunted, “But a large wolf is preparing to bite your heads off. So I think we should deal with that. Just a suggestion.”

“You are so  _ annoying _ !” Celegorm exclaimed, before bodily hurling himself at the wolf. He slashed at its side, barely grazing the flesh, and then its claws ripped down his side, leaving searing trails of pain.

“Oh, really?!” Celegorm snarled, unsheathing his dagger and stabbing at the wolf’s face. 

With a resounding bark, Huan leaped into the fray, locking his jaws around the wolf’s throat. Celegorm took the opportunity to drive his sword up into the wolf’s belly with a sickening squelch. It fell dead a moment later, and Celegorm rolled it off the side of the bridge and into the water.

They continued like this for a long time, speaking little, as more and more of the denizens of Tol-In-Gaurhoth came out to try their luck against the nuisances at the entrance to their home. Corpses began piling up below the bridge, and the air stank with blood. Celegorm’s head swam with exhaustion. Huan was bleeding from a cut on his haunch. Even Lúthien leaned more heavily on the parapet than she had before. But no one made any move to retreat. 

“Do you think Curvo’s all right?” Celegorm asked, as they stood still, waiting for the next creature to emerge from the tunnel.

Lúthien bit her lip. “I hope so.”

“He’s resourceful. He’ll get through.”

Lúthien looked up at the jagged towers of the fortress, her eyes wide and unblinking. With an effort, she shook herself and blinked rapidly for a few seconds. “I hope so,” she repeated.

~ ~ ~

They felt him before they saw him. There was no shift in temperature, no sounds other than the rushing river below, no new smell, but something, some unquantifiable characteristic of their surroundings changed. It was like the prickling on the back of your neck when you’re being watched, but when you turn around, no one’s there. It was like the flash of movement you see out of the corner of your eye that fades away before you can identify it. The pervasive sensation that something, somewhere, is  _ off _ .

Lúthien straightened her back and looked towards the tunnel. “Come on out!” she yelled over the sound of the rapids. “We know you’re there!”

“Yeah,” Celegorm joined in. “Show us what you’re made of!”

That was, perhaps, unwise. 

Sauron always took things literally. 

But Celegorm didn’t know that.

Well, not until he was buried under three hundred pounds of snarling, snapping wolf.

His sword was driven into his palm, slicing his hand down the middle. He screamed and got a mouthful of bloodstained fur. Jaws closed like a vice on his shoulder, teeth sinking in like heated blades. He heard something crack, and he gritted his teeth to hold in a shriek. 

And the air was filled with song. A song of pure rage. Celegorm was flung away, back onto the stones of the bridge, and the wolf’s form liquified into something huge and scaly, coming to crush Lúthien. 

Huan sank his teeth into the unprotected underbelly of the beast, drawing blackish-red blood that coated his fur. The scaly thing melted into a howling circle of pure black emptiness. Lúthien planted her feet and drowned out the screeching of the starless void with a song of light and warmth. By the time it had shifted again, into a blue-eyed monster primarily composed of rotting flesh, Celegorm had gotten to his feet, transferred his sword to his left hand, and came bearing down on it with a red light flickering in his eyes. 

His sword plunged into its chest and Lúthien sang a song of streaming blood and wounds that do not close. Celegorm was drenched in it, his pale hair dyed red. Huan launched himself at their adversary as he changed form yet again, slipping into something long-limbed and toothy. 

It was over as soon as Huan’s jaws closed around Sauron’s throat. He switched again, into a tiger, then a slippery eel, then a wolf again, then into pure fire that scorched Huan’s tongue. But still the hound of Valinor did not let go.

Lúthien, regal as a queen, with scratches on her face and torn clothes, stepped forward.

“If you know what’s good for you, Sauron,” she said coldly. “You will stop struggling and adopt a form that we can speak to.”

The fire crackled angrily, but it solidified into a pale, lithe Elven form, black robes torn and spread like wings, long red-gold hair unkempt and streaked with blood. His golden eyes were wide with fear or pain or rage, Celegorm couldn’t tell which. He went limp, blood dripping from his neck, gasping.

“Little daughter of Melian,” he snarled, “You are unwise to pick a fight with me. You’ve spelled your doom, and that of your friends as well.”

Lúthien raised an eyebrow. “Oh, by all means--go running back to Ada and tell him that a  _ little girl _ , her friend, and a dog beat you up and now you want to start a war with Doriath. I’m sure he’ll be just  _ thrilled _ . Why, he’ll probably give you his whole hellish army to do with as you will! I’ve heard Melkor is remarkably understanding when it comes to security breaches.”

There was a pause. Sauron glared up at Lúthien, his bloody teeth bared, seething. She was right, and he knew that. Morgoth didn’t take kindly to failures, Celegorm imagined. Almost he felt pity for Sauron, but the pain in his shoulder quickly drained it. 

“Fine,” the Maia snapped. “You win. Happy now? Or do you want to let your dog maul me some more?”

“It’s tempting,” Lúthien said frigidly. Celegorm snorted. “But I don’t think so. You can’t do anything to me, so what’s the point of destroying this form of yours? You wouldn’t die anyways. It wouldn’t do a thing.”

Sauron rolled his eyes. “Oh, I’m so  _ honored _ ,” he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Lúthien sniffed. “A thank-you would be nice, but I won’t require it. Anyways,” she said, turning to Celegorm. “Make sure our friend here doesn’t try anything. I’m going to finish this.”

Planting herself directly before the mouth of the tunnel, Lúthien closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and began to sing again. This time, it was a melody of shuddering foundations and cracking stone, of crumbling mortar and groaning beams. And the fortress of Tol-In-Gaurhoth heard and harkened, its towers collapsing in on themselves with a sound like thunder; the whole building shaking, and falling to pieces, and crashing to the earth. Dust billowed up into the sky, driven towards them by the wind. When Celegorm had blinked it out of his eyes, and finally managed to stop coughing, all that was left of the garrison was a pile of rubble.

~ ~ ~

“Are you really going to let him live?” Celegorm asked as he followed Lúthien through the shifting mounds of stone. 

“Yes,” she said simply.

“Can I ask why?”

Lúthien shrugged. “I do not kill without need. And besides, he’s a Maia. They can’t die.”

It was clear that she didn’t want to continue the conversation, so Celegorm didn’t press. Besides, the pain in his shoulder and his hand was rather all-consuming and dampened his desire for a chat about the ins-and-outs of morality and mortality. 

The rocks beneath his feet swam in and out of focus, Lúthien’s footsteps a pulse in the background. He wanted to sleep. Or maybe he was already slumbering? It felt like he was floating, floating away. . .

The screaming yanked him back. It was broken, and high-pitched, and sometimes devolved into hysterical sobs, like laughter. The kind of crying that you only do when you’re sure you’re completely alone. 

Lúthien sprinted through the debris, her scarf flapping behind her. Celegorm stumbled after her. They skidded to a stop at the lip of a yawning pit, stinking of blood and rotted meat. 

“Beren?!” Lúthien yelled as she slid over the edge, almost landing on the limp body of her lover. She lifted him, gently, tenderly, wiping blood from his lips, murmuring things in his ears. The screams had not been his.

Celegorm turned his hunter-sharp eyes to the shadows beside the huge carcass lying on the pit floor. There were two figures there, one bent double over the other. Golden hair gleamed in the pale moonlight. One hand lay in a pool of blood. It was very still.

Celegorm took one step forward.

“Curvo?” he asked quietly.

The sobbing figure raised its head and fixed him with a horrified stare, eyes reddened from weeping. And in doing so, he revealed the mutilated, barely recognizable face of the person on his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Celegorm whispered. “I’m so, so sorry, Curufin.”

Curufin didn’t rise, but his lips moved, forming the ghost of a word:  _ necromancer. _

“What?” Celegorm said. 

“Sauron. . .is a necromancer,” Curufin rasped. “And necromancers revive the dead.”

  
  



End file.
